Page 15 of Desert Sky (RB MC #4)

JD

M ost guys get their patch and bury themselves in the roar of engines, the sting of fists, and the thrum of lawless adrenaline.

Me? I buried myself in numbers.

I wasn’t built like the others, not fully.

I wore my patch with pride, but I didn’t crave chaos—I calculated it.

That’s why they trusted me with the books.

The Royal Bastards MC needed someone who could turn dirty money into clean futures.

I became the man behind the curtain, the hybrid between outlaw and Wall Street predator.

My days started in button-downs, rolled sleeves, expensive boots, and tailored jeans.

Not flashy—just dangerous enough. I lived in a Santa Fe high-rise with glass walls and a skyline view, but I still made time for the clubhouse, especially when Tarak or Edge called me in to talk strategy or drink away old ghosts.

Who knew River Cruz the new Prez of the Royal Bastards would become my nee best friend? The women joked he looked like heartbreak wrapped in leather, eyes shadowed, jaw sharp. His ex had done a number on him, and we bonded over shared misery.

We were throwing darts in the bar behind the clubhouse, sipping whiskey that cost more than most used cars.

“You’ve clean the books well,” River muttered, eyeing me.

I shrugged. “Among other things. I also invested club assets. Bitcoin. ETFs. Some legitimate real estate. We’re building a future.”

River chuckled. “Never met a biker in Armani.”

“Armani’s itchy. This is Tom Ford.”

That made him laugh.

A few shots later, we ended up downtown. Open mic night. The dive bar was packed wall to wall, people swaying to live music, neon lights flashing off wet tabletops.

Then she stepped on stage.

Evie.

Black curls, low-slung guitar, voice like bourbon and sin. I froze mid-pour, heart kicking against my ribs.

She sang like she’d lived every lyric twice. Like she knew exactly what it was to burn for someone who never came back.

“Who’s that?” River asked, nodding toward her.

“Trouble,” I said, breathless.

When she finished, the room exploded in applause. I didn’t wait.

I pushed through the crowd and met her as she stepped offstage.

“JD,” I said, holding out my hand.

She looked me up and down, smile slow and wicked. “I remember you.”

“You do? ”

“You came to my show once. Left early. Looked like your heart was breaking.”

I laughed. “Might’ve been.”

“Well, you stayed this time.”

I nodded. “And I want to buy you a drink.”

She tilted her head, amused. “That a question or a statement?”

“A little of both.”

She smiled.

And I let myself smile back.

The desert air was dry and biting, the kind that cracked your knuckles and left dust on your soul.

I sat on the back steps of the clubhouse, leather kutte creaking against my shoulders, a beer sweating in my hand. The night was quiet—too quiet for my brain to sit still.

Maybe it was the silence. Maybe it was the ache that came from remembering too much, too long. Or maybe it was just time.

Either way, I pulled out my phone and found Cal’s number.

It rang twice before he picked up.

“JD.” His voice was flat. Cautious.

“Hey.” I cleared my throat. “Didn’t think you’d answer.”

“I almost didn’t,” he said honestly. “Wasn’t sure if this was going to be a collect call from a county jail.”

I huffed out a dry laugh. “Not yet.”

There was a beat of silence, heavy with things unsaid.

“Word got around,” Cal said finally. “That you patched into a motorcycle club. That true? ”

I leaned back against the wood post, watching the moon rise over the hills. “It’s true.”

Another pause. Longer this time. “Really, JD?”

“Yeah.”

“You had a trust fund, five companies queued up for your name, and you chose… this?”

I didn’t flinch. Not anymore. “I chose something that felt real for once.”

“You think outlaw bikers are real?” Cal snapped. “You’re knee-deep in god-knows-what kind of illegal shit now, and for what? Chasing some identity crisis?”

“It’s not a crisis,” I said, my voice cold steel. “It’s clarity.”

He exhaled hard on the other end. “They gave you a kutte and a fake family, and suddenly everything we built, everything our family sacrificed, means nothing?”

“You mean what you built,” I said. “You always had the ranch. You always had your place. I was the spare part. The face in a suit, shaking hands at charity galas, smiling for pictures and pretending I didn’t want to choke on the air.”

“And this is better?” he asked, disbelieving. “Playing enforcer for some criminal brotherhood?”

I looked around the clubhouse, at the patched men laughing inside, at the scarred loyalty that ran deeper than any Northport family Christmas ever had. “Yeah. It is.”

“You’re throwing it all away.”

“No.” I drained the beer and crushed the can in my palm. “I’m finally living.”

Silence again.

Then Cal’s voice softened, a rare crack in the armor. “You could’ve talked to me first.”

“Would it have changed anything?”

“No,” he admitted. “But I would’ve tried to stop you. ”

“I know,” I said. “That’s why I didn’t call.”

There was another pause. Then—quiet, almost ashamed—he added, “Look… I know you think I was part of it. What happened back then. With Skye.”

“You were,” I said bluntly.

“I was under pressure. From Mom and Dad. From the lawyers. They said if I didn’t keep you in line, they’d cut me off from the ranch. You know how long I waited to run that land?”

I clenched my jaw. “I know. And you didn’t think I was worth losing it for.”

His voice cracked. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Sure it was,” I said, but I wasn’t angry anymore. Not like before. I was just tired. “But I’m not calling to throw the past in your face. I just… needed you to hear it from me. I’m not who I used to be.”

“You think this club’s gonna fix all that?”

“No,” I said honestly. “But it’s the first place I’ve ever walked into where nobody asked me to be anything other than who I am. JD. No titles. No suits. No bullshit.”

Cal was quiet for a long time.

Then, finally: “You always did have a mean streak of rebellion in you.”

“Guess now it’s just official.”

He sighed. “You get in over your head, you call me. I don’t care if we’re fighting. I don’t care what you’ve done. Blood’s blood.”

I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “Thanks, Cal.”

We hung up a few minutes later. No big blowout. No apology tour.

But something settled after that call.

Something unknotted deep in my gut .

Because for the first time in a long damn while… I didn’t feel like a shadow in someone else’s world.

I was building my own.

And it felt fucking good.